When there is loss in life, and hopes and dreams are shaken to the point that I feel rootless, unanchored, I go back to my most primal form of writing (once, that is, when I can write again). Poetry. I haven’t written poetry for its own sake in a long time. Yes, I’ve composed poems for my latest manuscript, since two of the characters are writers and one is particularly a poet. But I haven’t sensed the need to bottle anguish in verse in a very long time. I’m afraid if I don’t do so now, I may never find my way back to my stories.
“Four Days After”
I rise to heaviness,
A heart once thriving and alive
Now folding in upon itself,
Doubled over by the guilt of all the
Sagging with longing for
All that might have been.
Love is a tenuous, fragile thread
Between two different souls,
If left alone, the two may weave
A pattern for living as one.
Given time and care, the thread is
Doubled, tripled, and more until
It holds enough to bind in covenant…
But life intrudes,
Both past and present
Vie to shake that thread,
And others intervene,
In their well-meaning ways,
Half-blind, they push upon that thread
Only to help snip it short.
And now two hearts are folded in upon themselves,
And I rise to heaviness.